


loop

by oispaceman



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Multi, Pining Enjolras, like 90 percent angst free, social media as a plot device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oispaceman/pseuds/oispaceman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras’ views on romantic feelings for another person had been an oversimplification of something impossibly complicated, he would come to learn. He was used to his life running in loops, but this would be a break in the routine. He thought that maybe there was a chance Grantaire had been right all along and people really couldn’t adapt so easily.</p><p>(Alternatively: Enjolras more than absently wonders how Grantaire likes his eggs.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	loop

A man stood in front of a projector, his brown skin washed out by the light, with an image of something flowing over his broad features. He stared blankly into the camera for an unsettling seven seconds before the video looped back to the start.

The caption was _there are dicks on my face._

Enjolras’ eyebrows furrowed and he shook his head, looking up at his taller friend in confusion. “Are those…”

“Dildos on the projector?” Bahorel boomed a laugh, locking his phone to shove into his back pocket. “Yeah.”

“I don’t understand,” Enjolras huffed incredulously.

“No one does. But you’re still laughing,” Bahorel nudged him -- gently, for who he was -- and he had a point. There was a hint of amusement in Enjolras’ breaths, enough so that they could be taken as laughter. “The shit he publishes is weird as fuck, but he’s pretty cool.”

“And you want me to meet him?” Enjolras asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Not-- Not _specifically_ , you know, there’s…” Bahorel backtracked quickly, his face pinching in the way he did when he tried to lie. “He’s just going to be at the party, so…”

“You’re going out your way just to show me someone who’s going to be at a party filled with people,” Enjolras noted teasingly, smiling at his friend’s discomfort for only a moment before he neutralized his expression. “And you don’t want me to specifically meet him?”

“See, this is exactly why I don’t do that lowkey matchmaking shit,” Bahorel exploded, tossing up his hands in exasperation. “He thinks you’re cute and wants to meet you. There. Done. Now you’re in the know. Jesus fuck.”

Enjolras just hummed victoriously at the admittance -- he had known that was the case since Bahorel brought this Grantaire up, and he was fairly used to those strange requests from friends of friends. He would always meet them one way or another, and nothing would ever come from it. He was either too intense or too distant, he moved too fast or he moved too slow, but he was never that perfect in between they hoped for.

Not that he had ever cared. He had more than enough love in his life -- he never craved a romantic relationship, and there were many times he was _grateful_ to not have to worry about one on top of everything else. He didn’t get the appeal of sex -- to him, it seemed easier to just… not have it, and the fact that so many people tripped over themselves to get it felt more like a punchline to a joke he didn’t understand than anything else. His friends were enough.

So he met the people who wanted to meet him, and maybe he went on one or a few dates, but that’s as far as it ever went. Enjolras was okay with it, because it was just the way it was.

It always looped back to the beginning.

***

Despite the nearly endless jokes his friends made, Enjolras knew how to have fun. He _did_. Half his study techniques involved him inventing jokes to make the material lighter and easier to swallow. No one’s eyes were deceiving them, he _did_ crack that goofy smile when the professor said the word _duty_ four times in the same breath. Enjolras laughed at Courfeyrac’s antics just as much as he rolled his eyes, and Combeferre’s puns were the highlight of his day. He participated in Bahorel’s outrageous life goal of seeing how many ridiculous situations he could barely survive, and it had been _him_ to slip Feuilly the thermos of cider and rum while he was having a particularly rough shift.

He was always the one to try to round up his friends back to seriousness when they got a little too rowdy and off topic, so he was by all means the most serious, but Enjolras had fun.

He just hated parties.

They were too noisy, too hot, and too crowded for him. He didn’t feel comfortable with drinking enough to get drunk when there were strangers around, so his drink always went warm before he could finish it, making the alcohol even more unpleasant on his tongue. He tried to avoid them as much as he could, but he had a system that he couldn’t throw out when it came to it, especially when his friends picked up on it. He would decline six, and go to the seventh. And then he would decline six more, and go to the seventh after that.

Socialization outside of his close knit friend group was important for life experiences, so he did what he could. More often than not, though, he ended up huddled in the quietest corner he could find, hunched over his phone.

Sometimes people came up to him, bearing drinks and other offerings to slide into his good graces as those attracted to him often did at parties, and sometimes Enjolras let them stick around longer than it took for him to say _no thanks_. Sometimes he met good people -- Feuilly had been one, and Bahorel had been another -- but usually it was just a somewhat awkward conversation until they found an excuse to walk away. Or stumbling to get away, in the cases where they brought up something Enjolras was feeling particularly passionate about.

It was just another number on the long list of reasons of why he just stuck to the casual get-togethers his close friends had instead.

Bahorel’s party was no different, and once the majority of the crowd was good and drunk, Enjolras found himself perched on the end of a couch that was only occupied by a couple on the opposite side. They weren’t paying any attention at all to him, instead taking turns seeing who could smack their lips the loudest in the midst of kissing passionately, so he paid them just as much mind. He scrolled through his phone, his eyes scanning his bookmarks for an article he wouldn’t mind rereading, and he was perfectly content with just doing that.

“Some people just-- don’t have any manners,” a voice came from next to him, making him jump.

Enjolras turned to face the speaker. It was a man with a vaguely familiar face, but he couldn’t recall where he had seen it before, with black curls stuffed into a fraying knit hat. “Hm?” he hummed curiously.

The man leaned back, wide eyes shooting a pointed glance in the direction of the happy couple. When Enjolras tilted his head back in acknowledgment and mouthed a tiny _ah_ , the man gave a lopsided grin and hunched over again, blocking Enjolras’ view from the make out session. “I’m Grantaire.”

Oh. Right. Enjolras didn’t recognize him without dildos on his face. “Enjolras,” he introduced in turn, spinning his phone in his fingers.

Grantaire knitted his thick eyebrows together. “Ahn…”

“En-jol- _ras_ , sorry,” he emphasized quickly, making sure to put power behind his vowels. “You don’t have to say it with the accent.”

“En-jol- _ras_ , got it,” Grantaire repeated with a nod, flashing another crooked smile. “What accent’s that?”

“French.”

“Fancy.”

“Not really.”

Silence rested between them, and Enjolras took the few beats of pause to unlock his phone again. Grantaire was still in the corner of his eye for a little while longer, but then he bent over and hoisted something large enough into his lap that caused Enjolras to look back at him in surprise.

“Where…” he began, bewildered at the sudden appearance of an accordion.

“I found it,” Grantaire shrugged, straining to peer over the large instrument to see the keys. “It was just laying in the other room, so I was all, what the hell. YOLO, right?”

It made sense -- Bahorel was well known for his strange purchases, as well as his knack for not having anywhere to put them in his modestly sized apartment. “Can you play it?”

“Dunno, let’s see,” the man responded. A few chords came, their harmony surprising both him and Enjolras, before a squawk broke his good luck. Undeterred, Grantaire just redid his movements, tilting his head to hear the instrument over the general excitement in the room. He winced when a squeak responded to his push, and laughed. “I think the answer is no.”

“I don’t think it’s something you can just pick up,” Enjolras comforted, almost teasingly. “I’m sure Bahorel won’t notice if you just take it.”

“You think?” Grantaire hummed, twisting around the bulky instrument to study the various keys. The fingers that held it steady tapped quickly, and Enjolras could see his bottom leg jiggling from underneath. Was he nervous? “So… You know Rel?”

Enjolras had to turn his face away to hide his wrinkled nose -- if Grantaire felt more comfortable with pretending this was a chance meeting, then Enjolras wasn’t going to stop him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to _maybe_ judge him a little for it. After he’d composed himself, his eyes went to Grantaire again. “Yeah, we’ve been friends for a little over a year now. You?”

“I’ve been cursed with that ogre my entire life,” Grantaire replied solemnly, his curious fingers still dancing over his new instrument. He turned to flash a quick smile at Enjolras. “Almost. About six years, but really, that’s a fairly sizable chunk.”

Despite the accordion, it was the uninspired, typical party chat that drove Enjolras up the wall. He knew small talk was important -- it was good for networking, and for making new friends, and for filling uncomfortable silences -- and it didn’t make him feel like he knew Combeferre’s social anxiety made _him_ feel. It just reminded him of all his shortcomings. Enjolras wasn’t much of a conversationalist unless he was in front of an audience or a part of a debate, and even then it was probably only because of its one-sidedness. Small talk made him feel… inadequate.

So he looked back to his phone, pressing his lips together as he clicked on a bookmarked article at random, and hoped that would be the end of it.

Grantaire had other ideas.

“What’re you reading?” he asked, sliding the accordion off of his lap and back into the floor. A ukulele took its place, and Enjolras had to struggle not to betray just how bizarre he thought it was.

“A short biography of Karl Marx,” he replied, hoping he didn’t come off as pretentious as it sounded.

“So you’re a communist.”

Enjolras’ eyebrows twitched, and he looked back up to the other man. “I don’t see how reading about him gives away my political standings,” he objected. Blowing away a loose curl that fell into his eyes, he shrugged. “In any case, _communist_ is outdated. It would be _marxist_.”

“So are you a _marxist_?” Grantaire asked. His hazel eyes gleamed in dull lighting of the apartment, and Enjolras could tell he was being teased. It didn’t stop him from talking.

“I see it’s merits. I don’t necessarily agree with everything it has to offer, but nothing is perfect. We take bits and pieces from different things to create the closest to perfection we can get, and I think our foundation should be marxism.”

“So… Socialism,” Grantaire drawled.

“ _No_ ,” Enjolras groaned in frustration. “No, this is a hypothetical form of government I’m talking about. It has nothing to do with reality.”

“Well, yeah,” Grantaire laughed slightly. “Because it would never work in reality.”

“That’s the vague common argument against it, sure.” Enjolras moved so he could fold his arms stubbornly in front of his chest and angle himself so he was facing Grantaire more directly, who seemed delighted at the shift.

“Except it’s not vague at all,” he insisted. “Communism failed _horribly_ in the 20th century. Surely you’ve read about that.”

“I’ve already said that it wouldn’t be _strict_ communism,” Enjolras shot back. “I have a lot of faith in democracy, and I think that should be the structure it follows, but I don’t have faith in capitalism.”

“You just described socialism,” Grantaire replied. His fingers plucked at the strings of his ukulele absently as he talked -- the notes matched whatever song was playing in the apartment. “You sure you’re not a socialist?”

“Oh my God,” Enjolras nearly groaned. “We’re having two different conversations right now.”

“Are we?” A laugh escaped Grantaire, causing Enjolras’ shoulders to stiffen -- he really was having a nice time plucking as many of Enjolras’ nerves as he could. “Look, bottom line is that it’s a nice idea and all, but people are way too shitty to let it fly.”

“I’m pretty certain people had the same argument against democracy, too,” Enjolras huffed. “Look at the world now.”

“Yeah, it’s fucking awful,” Grantaire laughed.

“We’re a constant work in progress,” Enjolras objected. “You’re making generalized statements and that isn’t fair.”

“What progress have _you_ seen?” Grantaire asked, raising an eyebrow that flustered Enjolras with how confusing it was. He felt like he was being mocked, but he didn’t at the same time. Not being able to figure out this guy’s angle was infuriating.

“Plenty.” Enjolras didn’t know if he was being made fun of or not, but he’d continued debates for less reasons than he had then.

“Humanity as a whole kinda represents the no-progress zone.”

“Everyday people are learning, and every day the world is becoming a better place,” Enjolras insisted, his eyebrows furrowing together. For once, it was only _half_ annoyance. The only half was concern -- he didn’t like when people couldn’t see the positive light in things. “You have to believe that. If you don’t… Well. Of course you have your opinions. I already know I wear rose-tinted glasses -- I’ve been told that more times than I can even think to remember -- but I don’t think any of what I believe is unfounded. I see people learn, and adapt, and become better every day -- I see it in myself, too. Saying that humanity makes no progress is something I can’t accept. No one should accept it.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows raised, and for a moment, he looked completely awe-struck. Before Enjolras could decide on how the expression made him feel, it was gone, a smirk replacing it. “Technology-wise, perhaps. But the core of us? We’ve always been the same.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but I disagree.”

“You don’t say.”

“Putting aside philosophy for a moment, there have been many instances where eliminating poverty in a controlled area as benefited all it’s inhabitants. I know there was-- Sometime in the seventies or eighties--” Enjolras’ eyebrows furrowed as he tried to recall the article he had read a few months prior. “There was a town in Canada that regulated a base income for everyone, and it _worked_. It worked, and there was a whole town of people who didn’t have to worry about how they were going to feed their families, or even just themselves, and _that_ is where my economic views stand.”

“But how many people were pissed about it? I’ve never heard of that happening.” Grantaire held up one hand diplomatically, the other still firmly wrapped around his ukulele. “Not saying you’re a liar, just saying that if it worked as well as you said I think it’d be used in arguments more often.”

“The Conservative party took over Canada and deactivated the initiative. It was just meant to be a trial run, so of course no one was paying much attention to it,” Enjolras scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But the point is that it _worked_.”

And that’s how they continued. Grantaire would pluck at the strings of his ukulele as Enjolras gave what Courfeyrac called _impromptu bouts of passion_ , but his eyes never left Enjolras, and for some reason he never looked like he _wanted_ to leave the conversation. He’d patiently wait for the objection to be made, however long winded, and then he’d make one of his own, effectively destroying Enjolras’ entire argument with one even _longer_.

They weaved in and out of philosophy, dove into economics, flowed into sociology, and looped back to the start again. Neither of them repeated themselves enough to point them in the direction of a dying conversation, both of them somehow saying a trigger word that would ignite the passion in the debate that never really died down.

Enjolras got more frustrated than he wanted to admit -- his nails dug into the palms of his hand, and at one point he threw his arms out animatedly, knocking a stranger’s drink out of their hands. He liked to think he could handle someone having different ideals than him, but Grantaire seemed determined to prove that he couldn’t at all. Which was true, to an extent. Perhaps he would have been a little kinder if Grantaire hadn’t been so _wrong_ about _everything_.

Perhaps he would have been kinder if Grantaire didn’t look like he was infuriatingly enjoying every second of it. Granted, there were times that the other man looked just as frustrated as Enjolras felt, where his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed, and that was satisfaction enough.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but it seemed to be an entire night’s worth, since a very drunk Courfeyrac was suddenly leaned over Enjolras’ shoulders.

“Ferre says it’s time for home,” Courf slurred into the blond’s ear, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek as well. Pleased with himself, he giggled and tightened his arms around Enjolras’ neck.

“It sounds like it was time for home _hours_ ago,” Enjolras pointed out. He looked to his long-forgotten phone, his eyes widening when he saw the time. “It was definitely time for home hours ago,” he reiterated, ignoring how Courfeyrac continued to kiss his cheek. “I didn’t even notice.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Grantaire grinned.

“Or just angry,” Enjolras snorted, ducking out of his friend’s grasp. He stood and took note that the party had significantly thinned out -- which wasn’t surprising, since it was close to one in the morning. The surprising part was that he hadn’t _noticed_. “Where’s Combeferre?” he asked Courf, raising expectant eyebrows.

“Waiting by the door,” Courf sighed, pushing himself up from being thrown across the back of the couch. He wobbled only once before stabilizing himself, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “He’s not as drunk as me.”

“I don’t think anyone is,” Enjolras laughed slightly and gently grasped his friend’s arm to keep him from toppling over.

He shot a look at Grantaire to nod his goodbye -- it was only polite. As annoyed as he had made him, he _had_ kept him occupied during an event he would have otherwise been bored at. The other man’s face just looked pinched, like he had gone from arguing with Enjolras to himself. It wouldn’t have been all that shocking.

As if coming to a snap decision, Grantaire stood up quickly, his words coming nearly too fast for Enjolras to catch them. “Could I get your number?”

Enjolras blinked. Well. _That_ was shocking. He had been sure whatever interest Grantaire had died somewhere between Enjolras calling him _narrow-minded_ and _impossible_. “Um.”

“You don’t have to,” he continued quickly, offering a wry smile. “It’s just that-- I’d hate for our uncivil debate to be left unfinished.”

“Oh my God, if you don’t give him yours, I’ll give him mine,” Courfeyrac nearly whined, swatting a clumsy hand at Grantaire. “Here, gimme your phone, I’ll just--”

“No, no,” Enjolras objected, pulling his friend back. “I’ll-- Yeah, I’ll give you my number. I can send you those sources you were so adamant about having before.”

“The sources,” Grantaire repeated, blinking a few times before he thought to bring out his phone.

Enjolras tapped at the cracked screen to input his number, pressed send, and promptly hung up the call. “Yes, the sources,” he replied factually, handing the beaten phone back to its owner. He gave a tight smile when Grantaire took it. “Isn’t that what I promised to provide? It’s saved in your call log -- first one.”

In truth, anyone who debated with Enjolras until well past midnight and still wanted his number had earned it, he thought, but he wasn’t going to tell Grantaire that.

“I guess you did,” he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile.

Courfeyrac stumbled, though he was standing perfectly still, and Enjolras took that has his cue to leave. Finally giving Grantaire his goodbye nod, he pulled his shorter friend towards the door, grateful when Combeferre offered to take his other side.

“You let him get this drunk on purpose,” Enjolras noted once they loaded an almost limp Courfeyrac into the backseat of the car -- the promise of going home lulling him to sleep already. He wasn’t being accusing, he was just stating what he saw, and what he saw was Courfeyrac not going home with anyone.

Combeferre just flashed him a look from over his glasses. His eyes were glazed, but Enjolras had seen him drunker. His friend said nothing, and instead climbed into the passenger seat, his face carefully composed to hide his guilt.

They were halfway home and listening to nothing but Courf’s soft snores before Combeferre finally spoke.

“Am I a terrible person, Enjolras?” he asked, his voice calm, albeit quiet.

“No,” Enjolras answered immediately. He winced at a too-sharp left turn he made and hoped his friend wouldn’t point out his poor driving skills. “You’re just in love.”

“I should tell him.”

It wasn’t the first time Combeferre had said that, and Enjolras knew it wouldn’t be the last. So he said what he always did in response.

“You should. When you’re ready, you should.”

After dragging Courfeyrac up their apartment complex stairs, and shoving him into his bed with the help of Combeferre, Enjolras collapsed into his own, knowing his other friend would take the couch as he always did when he stayed over. Enjolras, as always, offered the bed, and as always, Combeferre declined. For thanks, he would cook them breakfast in the morning, and Courfeyrac would make obscene noises as he ate the pancakes or the french toast or whatever else Ferre had managed to whip up from their limited pantry.

His life was a loop.

It was comforting, in a way.

But something was different that night. When he plugged his phone into it's charger, the screen illuminated and displayed a text from a number he didn’t recognize.

_01:46am  
please cite ur sources ty_

He smiled sleepily and sat the phone down with an unspoken promise of tomorrow.

***

The video started on Grantaire, who sat cross legged on top of a mound of laundry. Bahorel’s accordion sat in his lap, and the only source of light came from a cheap projector on the floor, shining inaccurate constellations all over the room.

He somehow made the accordion sound delicate. It was a haunting song Enjolras had never heard before, stunning until the last few seconds.

The accordion squawked, and Grantaire hissed “ _Fuck_.”

The caption read _when you try ur best but u dont succeed #storyofmyfuckinlife_.

He let it loop at least twenty times before he finally closed out the app.

***

Grantaire was 26 with a bachelor's in fine arts and no plans on continuing his education. He liked a splash of coffee with his sugar, but he had the ridiculous notion that cream destroyed the point of drinking it in the first place, despite the amount of sugar he used ruining the flavor itself. He only owned one tie, and it was in the shape of a guitar -- gifted to him as a joke from his friend Jehan on his 21st birthday.

He was two years sober, coming up on three, and that wasn’t a subject he liked talking about, but Enjolras was left with the feeling that the door was open if he ever wanted to.

He knew how to play six instruments, soon to be seven after he finished mastering the accordion he certainly did not steal from Bahorel, and he acts like he doesn’t know what Enjolras is talking about when Enjolras reminds him that he _did_ steal it from Bahorel. His laugh was loud, and he sometimes clapped his hands when he was genuinely amused or particularly pleased, and his smile was just as crooked as his nose, which he broke twice.

He texted in all lowercase and used as much chatspeak as he could. Enjolras had more than a sinking suspicion some of the abbreviations were invented on the spot; another thing about Grantaire was that if he knew something annoyed a person, he would do it incessantly, and Enjolras wasn’t the type to hide his emotions when he felt them -- even through text.

They didn’t speak often at first, and for a while it was always Grantaire to open the line of communication. Their conversations were much like their first, though significantly less animated through texting, which was probably for the best. Then he and a few of his friends sort of… Merged with Enjolras’ friend group through Bahorel and Feuilly, and their arguments -- _debates_ , as Grantaire would call them, but Enjolras knew himself better -- returned to being in person.

And then it was him who would start the conversations, and not all of them would result in frustration or bafflement. Some of them were nice, even. He found that he liked learning new things about Grantaire. He found that he liked being surprised.

He didn’t know why Grantaire would humor him, especially given how scathing Enjolras could get when he was in the middle of his impassioned explosions, but he wasn’t quite ready to question it yet.

There were days, more frequent than Enjolras would have liked, where Grantaire’s eyes grew distant from everything around him. Enjolras would watch him from across a room or a table, sneaking glances from under his eyelashes, and would try not to frown at the melancholy across his face. He always wanted to ask what was wrong, but he always thought any of their other friends were more qualified.

It took some time, but Enjolras wasn’t oblivious enough to not realize what the tugging in his chest meant.

Once, years ago when they were Freshmen in college, Courfeyrac had started mooning over the boy he liked at the time.

“I just want to know how he likes his eggs,” he had groaned, showing his distress by pulling at the ends of his wavy locks.

“Then ask him,” Enjolras deadpanned, only mildly annoyed with the interruption to his studying.

Courfeyrac looked at him incredulously, like the blond had suddenly sprouted a second head that only spoke Latin. “You don’t _get it_ ,” he whined before he leaned over the table, swatting at Marius to win his attention over the boy’s German homework. “Marius, tell Enjolras that he doesn’t _get_ it.”

Enjolras simply tuned the other two out in response. He didn’t need Courfeyrac and Marius to tell him that he didn’t understand -- he was already well aware. To him, when it came to romance, there always seemed to be something more important on the horizon. He never felt that craving to get to know someone better, or at the very least never wanted it to go faster than the natural succession of becoming friends. If he wanted to know something, he’d just ask.

Until he met Grantaire.

His views on romantic feelings for another person had been an oversimplification of something impossibly complicated, he would come to learn.

He knew how Grantaire liked his coffee, but Enjolras wanted to know how he looked while he drank it first thing in the morning. He had seen the man comb through his curls with his fingers more times than he could count, but he wanted to know if that was his normal routine with them, or if he picked them apart when they were wet like Enjolras did in the mornings. He wanted to know if Grantaire had embarrassing pictures from when he was little and convinced he had to use a hairbrush like everyone else and ended up with a frizzy mop on his head -- just as Enjolras did. He wanted to know just how quickly he could wrap his knuckles when he sparred with Bahorel, down to the second, and he wanted to know the specific stories behind how his nose got broken. He wanted to know what led him to putting down a bottle and never picking it back up, no matter how painful it was. Once, Enjolras noticed a streak of lime green paint on the back of Grantaire’s arm, and he spent the rest of the evening imagining the other man in the many different positions it would have taken for it to get there. He wanted to know Grantaire’s favorite color, his most prized possession, his fears and his dreams.

How he liked his eggs.

His old advice of _just ask him_ seemed outrageous to him now -- if someone had said it to him then, he would probably look at them the same way Courfeyrac looked at him all those years ago.

It wasn’t that Enjolras was scared of rejection, or any of the other fears people seemed to have when it came to following through with their romantic attractions, but it wasn’t that he _wasn’t_ , either. It was just… The general unknown.

He was used to his life running in loops, but this would be a break in the routine. Enjolras thought that maybe there was a chance Grantaire had been right all along and people really couldn’t adapt so easily.

He was contemplating all of this at a party.

Well, it was more of a casual get-together between his friends, the parties that Enjolras actually liked, but their friend group had grown significantly over the past few months. With Grantaire came Jehan, Joly, and Bossuet, and Marius was taking advantage of everyone being in one room by introducing his new girlfriend Cosette. It was Enjolras’ third time meeting her, and he suspected everyone else could say the same.

Even in a room filled with people he cared for, Enjolras found himself being quiet when the mass conversation was chaotic, only responding when he was specifically called on. His silence wasn’t brought upon by feeling out of place or uncomfortable, but sometimes all Enjolras wanted to do was watch his friends. With the added silencing factor of the alcohol he consumed, that was what he did.

He watched Bahorel and Feuilly shove each other playfully while they bickered about Bahorel’s hour of music rights being over. Bahorel held the iPod dock, still blaring the sounds of quickly hammering guitars, over his head and laughed, but Feuilly ended up winning by landing a surprise kiss on his lips, commandeering the stereo while his boyfriend was distracted.

For a moment, Enjolras watched Eponine and Cosette have a quiet conversation in the farthest corner of the kitchen, but their serious expressions seemed too intimate and even looking at them felt like he was intruding.

He watched as Courfeyrac and Jehan each stood chairs swiped from the kitchen table as they dramatically read from the children’s play Courf was directing at the community theatre. Together, they made the tale of Rumpelstiltskin sound just as dark as it was originally intended to be, but with the simplified lines written for those under ten years old. Joly was hunched over on the couch, clutching his belly as he laughed hard enough to produce tears, and Bossuet still had his arm around him, laughing just as much. Marius nervously walked behind the two standing on the chairs, his arms open as if he expected them to fall at any minute.

And of course he watched Grantaire. He watched Grantaire, who had seemed rather distant at the start, but was now gesticulating lively as he reenacted something that happened to him that day. Musichetta rolled her eyes harder with every exaggerated string of words he chose, but she was just as engaged as Enjolras was from across the room. He felt his lips twitch into a smile at the sight -- he liked a lot of things about Grantaire, but his ability to turn mundane things into something interesting was his favorite.

Enjolras felt the most content with his life on these nights, and his happiness only warmed him more when Combeferre slid down the wall to sit next to him, their shoulders pressed firmly together.

“I’m going to tell him,” Ferre opened with, his eyes looking at Courfeyrac, just as they often did. The fond smile on his face was familiar to Enjolras in not only seeing it on Combeferre a hundred times before, but knowing it had just been on his own face as he watched Grantaire.

Still, he had to admit he was a little surprised. Combeferre always said that he _should_ tell Courfeyrac how he felt, never that he _was_. Enjolras understood why, in some way -- the lack of liability restrained some of the guilt of secrecy.

“Probably not tonight, and probably not tomorrow,” Combeferre continued. He offered a glass bottle of cider to Enjolras, who took it gratefully. “But soon, I believe.”

Enjolras rested his head against the wall and sank into the beanbag chair they were sharing, watching Combeferre carefully as he took a swig of the drink. His friend looked to him finally, his eyebrows quirking in that curious way he was so good at.

“What?” he asked, the corners of his lips twitching like he didn’t know if he wanted to smile or frown.

“How does he like his eggs?” Enjolras asked, keeping his eyes innocently wide.

Combeferre’s eyebrows furrowed, and his lips decided on a slight frown. “Over easy, so he can make that disgusting egg and sriracha soup… thing to sop up with toast-- Wait--” he paused, his face shifting into something bemused. “Why are you looking at me like that? And what kind of question--”

Enjolras was laughing before he could stop himself, and he leaned his face on his bottle, the glass cool against his alcohol flushed skin. “You should definitely tell him, Ferre. Soon.”

Though his friend looked at him oddly, the fondness returned, and he breathily joined Enjolras’ laughter. “You know, I--” He paused, his eyes breaking away from Enjolras to look back to Courf, who still stood proudly on his chair. “I used to think I wouldn’t have to tell him, ever if I played my cards right. I thought things would just… happen or not happen. But, ah, maybe it’s time to take a page from your book, right?”

The check was meant to be hypothetical, but Enjolras knew better. Combeferre was nervous, and rightfully so. Enjolras couldn’t help but to toss a throwaway glance towards Grantaire before he looked back to his friend. He nodded. “I think so, yeah.”

They were interrupted by Grantaire, who was suddenly leaning over them both to grab something pushed behind the bookcase Enjolras was half supporting himself on. He looked up, startled, and his eyes fell on the skin exposed by Grantaire’s baggy sweater riding up his waist. His cheeks flushed at the trail of hair that led into his pants, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away. Regardless, it was gone as soon as he straightened again, pulling a beat up acoustic guitar from behind Enjolras in a flourish.

“Who are you trying to impress?” Musichetta teased.

“What’re you gonna play? Wonderwall?” Bahorel boomed, throwing a partially balled up napkin in the direction of Grantaire. It lost momentum halfway there, floating to rest on Bossuet’s head.

“Douchebag!” Feuilly added in a mockingly low tone. Bahorel went to high five him, but Feuilly decided to kiss his boyfriend’s palm instead.

“Ah, fuck you guys,” Grantaire grinned, good naturedly. “But if you’re gonna be in my fucking apartment drinking, then I need something to occupy my hands. Plus I’m sick of listening to you two whine about the music, so fuck you again.”

“Hm,” Enjolras hummed. “I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.”

Grantaire looked at him with mild surprise. “Someone’s cheeky when they’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Enjolras shrugged, shooting a teasing smile.

See. He _could_ have fun.

“All right then,” Grantaire smiled, wrapping the guitar strap around his shoulders. Already having everyone’s attention -- with the exception of Eponine and Cosette, who were still having their intense discussion in the kitchen -- he cleared his throat with needless dramatics. “Anyway, here’s Wonderwall.”

“Fuck you, man,” Bahorel groaned.

Grantaire just gave a shit-eating grin and played the first few chords of the well known song in response, leaning against the back of the couch as he played. His voice, something Enjolras had grown a little familiar with through the seven second videos he always posted to social media, floated softly above the guitar. “ _Today is gonna be the day that Rel--_ ”

He paused his singing and looked around expectantly as he continued to strum idly.

“Finally fucks off,” Jehan suggested, their lips pursed in thought.

Grantaire nodded appreciatively and started over, his voice somehow carrying over Bahorel’s laughter. “ _Today is gonna be the day that Rel finally fucks off_.”

It went on like that, Grantaire pausing with every half-finished line and one of their friends would feed him the rest. As all things did with them, it escalated into something more. Courfeyrac quickly scrawled down their lyrics on the back of his script, and Jehan was impressively clever with turning anyone’s ideas into smart rhymes. The song eventually morphed from making fun of Bahorel into an anthem for them all, even bringing Cosette and Eponine from their conversation to join, and Enjolras couldn’t remember a time where the group had been so involved in a single activity.

It made his chest swell.

Or maybe it could have been Grantaire being so adamant about keeping _And Enjolras’ smile is fucking blinding_ in every chorus.

Either way, he didn’t think he’d ever felt happier.

***

The video opened with Grantaire, face streaked with blue paint, playing a fast paced song out on his keyboard. His eyes were covered with upside down sunglasses that had a frowny face drawn on each of the lenses, and he wore an unbuttoned hawaiian shirt. A cheap plastic lei covered his bare chest.

Harmonizing with the piano, he sang quickly. “ _I went to a seafood disco last week_ \--”

His poorly supported glasses fell off his face and clattered around the keyboard as he continued to play. His eyes were wide and crazed, making his smile look almost sinister. “ _I pulled a mussel-- fuck me that’d land better if I spelled it._ ”

It was titled _i havent slept in 2 days #mussel_ , and Enjolras didn’t understand it, but he still let it loop more times than necessary.

***

The last year of law school, along with his internship at the firm his parents had set up for him, consumed the majority of Enjolras’ time. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a full seven hours of sleep -- really, he couldn’t remember the last time he had slept longer than four hours at a time.

He stopped keeping track of time when he realized it stressed him out more, so he really didn’t know how late it was when Courfeyrac stumbled out of his bedroom, looking half-dead and disheveled.

“What’re you-doin’,” his roommate slurred, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands sleepily.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Enjolras asked, his eyebrows drawing in concern. He tried to be quiet, but he knew his affinity for making frustrated grunts could get out of hand when he wasn’t paying attention.

“No,” Courf shook his head, dragging his feet across the carpet towards their kitchen. He waved a distracted hand behind him towards their bedrooms, the next word coming out with a yawn. “Your phone, though.”

“My phone woke you?” Enjolras checked.

“You’ve already asked me one question,” Courfeyrac mumbled, leaning his forehead against the fridge as he continued to wave Enjolras in the direction of his bedroom. “That’s all you can ask before nine. You know this. Go.”

Amused at his half asleep friend, and a little bit sorry for being the reason he was woken up in the middle of the night, Enjolras slipped away to retrieve his phone to turn it off. It was probably the chime of his email that had stirred Courfeyrac -- he had Google alerts for a handful of keywords, and sometimes if he didn’t shut his phone off for the night it would buzz and beep nonstop.

Surprisingly, he only had one email, but he had six texts from Grantaire, all sent within the half hour.

 _From: Grantaire_  
_02:34am:_  
_wrud. i can’t fuckin sleep._

 _02:42am:_  
_fuck, that was meant for eponine. i s2g_  
_get a new name._

_02:48am:  
that was rude. ur name is really nice._

_02:48am:  
it’s not ur fault i can’t read._

_02:50am:_  
_aaaaand i just noticed the time. jesus._  
_sorry. i hope ur phone is off._

 _02:53am:_  
_saying i hope ur phone is off negates my_  
_apology. and so does sending this text._  
_i’ll stop now._

Enjolras sat on his bed, smiling before he realized, and replied before he could think better of it.

 _From: Enjolras. 03:04am:_  
_I was awake, actually, so you didn’t wake_  
_me up. Can’t say the same for Courfeyrac,_  
_though._

 _From: Grantaire. 03:12am:_  
_shit, really? ofc u don’t need ur beauty_  
_rest like the rest of us._

_03:12am:  
tell courf i’m sorry._

_From: Enjolras. 03:13am:  
I’ll be sure to in the morning._

_From: Grantaire. 03:13am:_  
_so why are u awake during the hours_  
_usually reserved by hooligans, sir?_

_From: Enjolras. 03:14am:  
Because I’m a hooligan, clearly._

_03:14am:_  
_No, I just had casework I needed to finish_  
_for my boss._

_From: Grantaire. 03:15am:  
again i say: ofc._

_From: Enjolras. 03:15am:  
How sesquipedalian of you._

_From: Grantaire. 03:15am:  
cheeky!!!!_

Something told Enjolras he should put the phone down and say goodnight, and actually try to get more than a few hours of sleep. But something else made him invite Grantaire to take a walk with him around the city, because something about Grantaire made Enjolras impulsive like he used to be before he was conditioned to grow out of it.

In the early morning chill, fifteen minutes later, Enjolras rocked on the balls of his feet outside of Grantaire’s apartment and realized just how much he missed the thrill of the unknown.

He realized just how much Grantaire played a part in lighting it up again.

“Hey, sorry,” Grantaire greeted, still shrugging on his leather jacket as he leaped down the stairs to his building, two at a time. “I really was gonna try to meet you halfway, but…”

“It’s okay,” Enjolras assured. Their voices broke the eerie quiet that only settled during this time of night; it made him speak in a whisper. He held out a thermos of coffee when Grantaire reached him. “It’s cold,” he explained.

“That tends to happen,” Grantaire agreed, taking the thermos with raised eyebrows. “Thanks.”

They headed in a direction that neither showed any signs of agreeing on, but Enjolras knew Grantaire was more familiar with this side of the city -- they wouldn’t get lost. They walked in silence for a block, and then another, and then one more, just passing the thermos of coffee back and forth until they drained it. It was peaceful. They had never been truly alone together before, and now that it appeared as if they were the only ones left in the world, it felt natural.

They decided to break the silence at the same time.

“So why did you--” Grantaire began.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Enjolras overlapped, but he wasn’t the one who stopped talking.

Grantaire pulled his beanie off to run a hand through his wild hair -- a dedicated move, really -- and shrugged. “I was writing shit. Emphasis on the shit.”

“Music?” Enjolras asked. His hands were tightening around the empty thermos. He imagined how easy it would be to hold Grantaire’s hand instead.

“Lyrics,” Grantaire nodded, his hand still twirling around his hair. “I’ve got the sound I want, just-- Struggling with the words.”

“You, struggle with words?” Enjolras laughed slightly and shook his head. “The irony.”

Grantaire looked at him from the corner of his eyes as he yanked his beanie back on, his lips quirking in amusement. “We can’t all make heartfelt speeches at the drop of a hat like you, Apollo.”

“Coming from the person who talked for an hour about the artistic value of that god awful, _pointless_ movie about a homicidal car tire,” Enjolras countered, “that doesn’t mean much to me.”

“That movie is _deep_ , and I’m offended by anything you have to say about it, so stop while you’re ahead,” Grantaire grinned. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it between his lips while he dug around for a lighter. “It’s humorous social commentary on--”

“Art critics,” Enjolras finished, smiling to himself. His eyes dropped to his feet. “I remember.”

“So you do.”

They fell back into silence as Grantaire lit his cigarette, and Enjolras waited for him as he did, his eyes roaming his face illuminated by the flame. It was gone in an instant, Grantaire’s face washing over with shadows again. Before he could wish for a brighter light again, Grantaire beckoned him to follow with a jerk of his head, breaking their straight line to turn down a street at random.

“I struggle with words a lot,” Enjolras blurted, keeping his eyes ahead of them. “In any situation where I’m not giving a speech, or if I don't have any reasonable means of authority over who I’m talking to, I really struggle. I’m certain that my personal hell will be me in a room filled with strangers who all expect pleasant small talk.”

When Grantaire didn’t reply right away, Enjolras made himself look over at him. His expression wasn’t amused like he expected, but instead pensive. “Yeah, I-- Yeah, I picked up on that.”

“I come off cold and…” Enjolras laughed in spite of himself at a memory. “One time someone said I didn’t have a personality.”

“Who the fuck?” Grantaire’s laughter joined his, and Enjolras didn’t mind when the wind pushed the cigarette smoke into his face. “You’re the most complex person I know personality wise. Full of fucking surprises, man.”

Enjolras smiled at that, ducking his head to hide the warmth creeping on his cheeks. He could blame it on the cold if he was called out, but he would rather not lie. “Maybe your song just doesn’t need words.”

There was a pause, and Enjolras looked back to Grantaire hesitantly, who was looking back at him curiously. He knew it was irrational, and it was so rare that he ever felt insecure about himself, but his heart was hammering hard in his chest and he worried that he said something he shouldn’t have. It was all for nothing, however, because the other man gave a breathy laugh in the next instant.

“Jesus, see?” he gestured to Enjolras, his cigarette dangling from his lips as he talked around it. “Full of fucking surprises. That was poetic as shit.”

“It was logic,” Enjolras argued, having to duck his face again to hide his blush.

“Nah, it was poetic,” Grantaire teased.

 _God_ , Enjolras liked this. He didn’t know where they were, or where they were headed, if they were headed anywhere at all, but he really liked this. He didn’t care that he had to be at work in four hours, and he didn’t care if he skipped out on sleep altogether for this. He was tired, sure, and running on nothing but the false energy from caffeine, but for once in his life, Enjolras didn’t _care_.

It wasn’t to say that he wanted things to always be like this -- he liked caring about things, even when people told him he cared too much about everything -- but in that suspended moment in time, it was freeing not to always carry the weight of the world he normally hoisted willingly.

It was a break in his loop, and it wasn’t scary at all.

“Why’d you ask me to go on a walk with you at three in the morning?” Grantaire asked suddenly, breaking Enjolras from his thoughts.

Enjolras pursed his lips as he deliberated his answer, but his new found energy from realizing how simply _happy_ he was made him smile before long. “I was lonely.”

“Ah.”

“Not-- God, not like that, I-- I have people everywhere, you know? I love my friends -- _our_ friends -- and I know they love me. I know I could have called any of them and they would have done this without complaint. I know I could have kept Courfeyrac from going back to sleep to keep me company, and reasonably I guess I should have instead of dragging you out here and--”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire interrupted gently. They stopped walking in unison, another unspoken decision between them. He shook his head. “You don’t have to explain past that. I get it. Hell, I feel it a lot myself. I’m happy to--”

“I was lonely for you,” Enjolras confessed, his words flooding out of him with a long exhale.

Silence hit them again, but it wasn’t the same lazy comfort that had followed them around so far, it was more like they were frozen. Grantaire just stared at him for a long while, and his neutral expression made Enjolras' heart burst nervously in his chest. Had he gone too far? Had he said too much?

Finally, Grantaire spoke.

“What.”

Enjolras’ hand went to his steadily heating face, covering his mouth as he turned away in embarrassment. He shook his head feverishly. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I-- Sorry.”

He started walking away -- another impulse -- but his arm was caught before he could get too far.

“Enjolras, wait,” Grantaire pleaded. When Enjolras turned to look at him, his face was twisted with an emotion he couldn’t quite read, but he folded to the request and stopped trying to get away. They stared at each other for a beat more before Grantaire’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Can you say it again?”

Enjolras blinked before slowly pulling his arm out of the other man’s loose grasp -- it came easily with no resistance, as he knew it would -- and held it to his chest. Slowly, he felt his expression pinch into something incredulous. “Did you not hear me?”

“I just want to hear it again.”

“You make everything so _difficult_.”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire looked softer than he had ever been. His hands hung limp at his sides, the long forgotten cigarette had dropped to the ground, unfinished and slowly turning to ash. Judging by the gentleness in his eyes, they could have been on the sidewalk surrounded by hundreds of people and Enjolras still would have felt like they were alone.

It was terrifying, somehow in the best conceivable way.

“I said I was lonely for you,” he breathed.

Grantaire took a step forward, and then there was a hand cupping Enjolras’ cheek, and then his face was being tilted downwards, and then lips were on his. They were cold, and chapped, and they tasted like stale coffee and cigarettes, but they ignited a fire unlike anything Enjolras had ever known before. He kissed Grantaire back fiercely, tongues and teeth clashing together without grace, but he didn’t care.

Enjolras’ smile made it impossible for the kiss to last long, and Grantaire’s didn’t help either.

***

Joly’s face grinned at the camera set at a high angle, signaling either Bossuet being the cameraman, or a selfie stick being involved. Grantaire sat in the corner of the frame, sitting on the couch whilst hunched over a sketchbook, smiling at it absently.

“R,” Joly called, still grinning at the camera. He took a few steps backwards, bringing Grantaire more into the shot. “Did you hear the invisible man married the invisible woman?”

Grantaire looked up, his eyes widening. “Joly, n--”

“I hear it wasn’t much to look at,” Joly continued gleefully.

He burst into his high pitched, infectious giggle just as Grantaire leaped for him.

It looped back to the beginning.

***

“Okay, so I have a confession,” Grantaire started on the evening of their second date.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. He was leaned against a claw machine, forced to come over to it after Grantaire waxed poetic on having an undying _need_ to play it right then and there. He watched as the claw fumbled with a stuffed bear, only to unsurprisingly lift back empty. “Is it that you’re actually terrible at this?”

“No. Well, yes, but that’s not the confession,” Grantaire grinned. He put in another two coins to play -- and most likely lose -- again. “The confession is that I knew about you before Bahorel’s party.”

Enjolras huffed a laugh. “I know.”

Grantaire paused and looked back at Enjolras, the claw hanging in suspension as it waited for him to press the red button on the joystick. “You know?”

“Bahorel told me,” Enjolras supplied factually. “He showed me your videos before the party.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Grantaire balked, his eyes widening. “Which videos did he show you?”

“Three of them involved dildos,” Enjolras laughed. He tried to press his lips together to suppress his smile and save Grantaire some embarrassment, but he knew damage had been done. “Surprisingly, none of them are the weirdest content you’ve put on the internet.”

The game timed out while Grantaire stared at him, the claw unsuccessfully closing on nothing but air and raising itself again. “You’ve seen my Vines?”

It was Enjolras’ turn to be embarrassed, and he turned away like he always did when he blushed. “Well, yeah. A few, yeah.”

More like all of them, but it wasn’t like he was lying. _A few_ just wasn’t specific.

Grantaire looked around the arcade they were in with a look of distress. He stood on his toes to peer over the top of the claw machine, and then he dropped down to look underneath. Enjolras watched him curiously, but patiently waited for him to finish whatever odd performance he was putting on.

“Am I being pranked?” Grantaire asked, lifting his arm as if a hidden camera would fall from his sleeves.

“How is it a prank for me to have seen your videos?” Enjolras asked, bewildered.

“No, no, _that_ I can believe. It’s the fact that you still agreed to go on not just one, but _two_ dates with me after seeing them.”

Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh at the answer. “If I recall correctly, _you_ agreed to date _me_.”

“Oh yeah, you really had to twist my arm with that one,” Grantaire scoffed sarcastically.

“Y’know, Bahorel never told me _how_ you knew about me,” Enjolras drawled, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Grantaire’s dark skin made it hard to tell when he was blushing, but Enjolras could see it clearly with the help of the fluorescent lights that washed him out. He looked almost guilty. “I, uh…” He groaned and rubbed his face. “I think this is more of a sixth date conversation. Honestly, it’s more of a _never_ conversation.”

“I believe you can find your words, Grantaire,” Enjolras pushed, albeit more playful than anything else.

“ _God_ , okay, he, like-- He posted a video with you in it, and I just--” He dropped his hands, his eyes serious as he looked back at the blond. “You realize how fucking beautiful you are, right? Absolutely iridescent, truly unlike anything I’ve ever seen. You’re like a marble statue Aphrodite breathed life into _and_ cast a good looking charm on you on top of everything else. You’re--”

Enjolras cut him off with a kiss, tight lipped from his smile. He didn’t believe there was a kind way to interrupt anyone, even the person you were dating, but he knew when Grantaire was going to start his long-winded rambles that were used to just fill up silence. He pulled away after a moment, his lips still twitching with a smile.

“Flattery isn’t going to change the fact that you were a total fuckboy about me,” he whispered teasingly.

Grantaire groaned again. “In my defense, it took almost a _year_ to get a date with you, and need I remind you of who asked who out? I think not, since you were at the ready to tell me just a few minutes ago. I was prepared and content with spending the rest of my life not knowing what this was like.”

Enjolras could only breathe in response to that. He didn’t know how to say that he had almost done the same, resigned himself to living his life in circles, apprehensive about breaking his routine, so he didn’t. Instead, his fingers loosely intertwined with Grantaire’s. Even just light hand holding around no one who cared about who they were made his heart beat a little faster, his stomach following the pounds with tiny flips.

For the hundredth time since the night they spent walking around the city, Enjolras realized how much he missed the thrill of being alive. It was different from climbing over fences to childishly spray paint a warning on a side of an industrial building that did animal testing, or charging at a police officer that was getting too power happy with his mace. This thrill was safer; it was the middle ground he had never known how to tread before.

The question came before he could stop it.

“How do you like your eggs?”

***

A shaky frame opened the shot to the video cleverly titled _annoying my boyfriend pt 4_. Grantaire’s shifting hazel eyes were the focal point.

“Hey, Enjolras,” he started, the corners of his lips twitching and his tone that of an overly dramatic interviewer. “Can I kiss you?”

The frame flipped to Enjolras in the passenger seat, who looked entirely unamused before the camera fumbled and made his jaw and a few blond curls the only thing in the shot. “This wasn’t funny the first time. But yes.”

It was Grantaire again, much later and in a different setting -- the sun from a few seconds before had long since disappeared, and his face was covered in shadows. His eyes were wide, and the urgency in them reflected in the quickly passing streetlights as he sped down the street. “ _Fucking unbelievab--_ ”

It looped to the beginning again.

**Author's Note:**

> \--[This](https://vine.co/v/hw1qFnFXQmb) is the vine that inspired this whole damn thing leave me alone omg. (NSFW- It's the dildo one) (it's also the only one I "borrowed" I guess. The rest of the weird was just made up.)  
> \--[This](http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/2014/12/23/mincome-in-dauphin-manitoba_n_6335682.html%20) is the Canadian town Enjolras was talking about, and it's one of his many sources he sends to Grantaire in his first text.  
> \--[The homicidal tire movie](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1612774) is a real thing, and it’s on Netflix. I highly recommend everyone watch it when you’re sleep deprived or with a bunch of friends you can laugh with.
> 
> This was a mindless mess I just decided to randomly spit out and I appreciate everyone who read it. Five gold stars for your troubles! Say hi on [tumblr](http://enjolrasrouge.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
